It Just Makes Sense
by zealousfreak27
Summary: John Watson has fallen for his sociopathic, possibly asexual flatmate. God help him./ Nothing about Sherlock Holmes is normal. Why should his love for John Watson change that?/ A love story between two idiots. Light slash. COMPLETE.
1. Unrequited Love That Is Truly Requited

**AN/ First Sherlock fanfic! Sherlock is a difficult character to write. Please let me know your thoughts. This is honestly how I see their relationship. Enjoy.**

* * *

They've finished the case and they're again celebrating with a post-chase victory meal. Sherlock doesn't care that he's probably saved many lives by putting the serial killer behind bars, but John does, and he's so happy to be here, to be of use to the world again. And he looks up to see Sherlock grimacing at a minor grammatical error on the Chinese menu and John knows he'll inform the waiter of this 'problem' in that sensitive way of his. And the thought is suddenly in John's mind: _I think I love him._

This should be life changing. John should have some sort of sexuality crisis. But it doesn't happen. Everything about Sherlock is extraordinary; why should John's feelings for him be any different? This is somehow just natural. It is simply the inevitable: that John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

It doesn't come over him quickly, the physical attraction; the emotional and mental had been there since the beginning. John thinks Sherlock would appreciate, if he knew, that John first and foremost values him for his mind, his personality. But he would have to be blind to ignore how gorgeous he is.

John thinks he's very lucky that he's not twenty and his attraction to Sherlock is easy to hide. He is sure that he is not sporting most of the obvious signs, or Sherlock would have noticed.

He does get to appreciate the way Sherlock looks in the moonlight, the slenderness of his build, and the shifting color of his eyes. But more importantly, he gets to trail after him, cleaning up his figurative and literal messes, making sure he eats and protecting him.

He knows Sherlock cares about him, as much as he's capable of caring. He's just glad to be his friend, to be there for him. He can't stand the thought of losing that, so he keeps his distance, not wanting to scare him off. Sherlock is married to his work.

It's not long after the Reichenbach painting case that he gives up dating women altogether. He's only ever been in a committed, functioning relationship once before; with a lovely woman named Mary Morstan, while he was in Uni. He'd actually been thinking of proposing to her, but then he got the call. She'd been killed by a drunk driver. John hadn't recovered, not really. He'd never been able to maintain a relationship since.

John wonders if he's a masochist sometimes. After all that with Mary, he's fallen for a sociopath who's possibly asexual. God he's hopeless.

The moment he knows he's lost for good is the day he finds Sherlock composing. He hasn't heard him write his own since Irene Adler. He wonders vaguely what's gotten Sherlock so emotional.

There's nothing too special about moment, but when John looks at Sherlock's face his breath is taken away. Sherlock is just plain beautiful. He listens to the nostalgic sounding notes as his flatmate scrapes the bow over the strings. All he wants to do is walk over to Sherlock and hold him, hide him away from the rest of the world and keep him safe. He's just so far gone in that moment. He loves Sherlock so much. Love is too weak a word.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock's question utterly snaps John's train of thought.

"Yeah," he manages weakly. "It sounded like..." He searches for the right words. "Home."

* * *

And then Sherlock jumps from a building, and it's all over. Everything.

John's sense of purpose is shattered. He's always needed to feel useful, ever since he'd been a kid. First it was rugby. He'd shattered his leg playing it, but even after the doctor said it was completely healed, his limp had not left until he began to play again. There was being a doctor and the army; both things to devote his life to. Those had been taken away, and the limp returned.

Sherlock was his ultimate purpose; one that he'd thought would last forever. Now he's just dragging himself through each day, aimlessly, again with the limp. The only reason he doesn't just end it all is because he's too damn stubborn.

And now the thought that comes to him suddenly is, _Why didn't you tell him?_

* * *

()

* * *

Sherlock knows from the first day that there's something different about John Watson. He can glean every thought from John's mind, every emotion from his overly large heart. Or at least he thinks he can. He knows that part of this is because John is just so honest, so readable. The rest, Sherlock thinks, is his own brilliance. But one day he realizes that part of it is also that he's just around John so often. He preens a little inside to think that he know John better than anyone else. But somehow John is still a mystery.

He knows how John takes his tea and coffee. He knows how groggy and adorable (adorable? When did Sherlock begin to use such words? Why on earth is he applying them to John?) John looks when he first wakes up in the morning. He knows to take John seriously, to not judge by his appearance (Sherlock does like how small John is though) because he can be deadly. He knows the mundane and the extraordinary. (Sometimes, Sherlock is not sure why John is extraordinary. He just is. John seems to do a lot of simply existing and making that seem amazing.)

And the most exceptional thing of all is that Sherlock wants to know these things, that he doesn't delete any of them. He keeps everything stored safely in his Mind Palace, from John's tired sigh to his tender expression when he thinks Sherlock's not looking.

Before John, he never bothered with most emotions towards people aside from annoyance. (Mrs Hudson being a completely rational exception.) Emotions were chemical reactions, easily ignored. But after he'd met John, seen how useful John would be to have around, he'd known that was pointless. John had saved Sherlock's life because of his emotions. _Why not let a bond form?_ he'd thought. John was good at making tea and at shooting people. He'd be more likely to stay if he thought Sherlock liked him.

But soon it is all out of control. Soon, it hurts him almost physically to see John hurt, or even in danger. Moriarty and that damn Semtex...

He hates John's girlfriends. He's never felt jealously like this before either.

Sometimes, he wants to wrap John up and hide him from the world. He wants to keep John all to himself.

And inexplicably, he feels guilt at these notions. He hasn't even carried them out yet, for god's sake! But he knows this is all selfish. He never would have cared normally... but this was John. John who thinks Sherlock is brilliant, who says so in public, in front of other people. John who trusts Sherlock, because he's an idiot. John who is an idiot but tries to understand, wants to understand. John who cares.

He shouldn't keep John to himself. _If you love someone, let them go_, his heart, or whatever that thing that throbs when John's around, whispers. Sherlock tells it to shut up, which is common.

He only really tries once to let John go. He thinks John would be difficult to let go; John would cling on. But maybe not. Sherlock's not sure. He hates being not sure.

He tries to drive him away. Just to see. He knows he's lying to himself when he pretends it's for John's good. Sherlock is feeling angry, bored, and like he wants to find cocaine, and John is just looking so damageable. Sherlock wrings out his deductions, spits out his knowledge of John's childhood and neglectful, drunken parents. He mocks John's intelligence and wonders if John's family and friends find him as pathetic as Sherlock does. He laughs at John's life choices and concludes that he wants John to move out because he can't stand his presence anymore. Then he sits back to watch the aftermath.

John's face is like a slideshow, just for Sherlock. First is just pure pain. It actually makes Sherlock feel guilty. A bit. Next is anger on John's expressive form, then shame, which is ridiculous. Where is that coming from? What has John to be ashamed of? Sherlock has not really said anything that John has to be ashamed of; there truly isn't much at all. John has lived a good life.

Oh, is he feeling the apparent the loss of Sherlock's good opinion? Sherlock allows nothing to show on his face, but he's a bit happy that it matters so much to John. _Or course it does_, he thinks. _You've known that._

John turns away after that, making Sherlock want to cry out in frustration. He wants to see John's face! And then it's all made worse by John slowly walking away, back straight and eyes forward, like a soldier. He walks up the stairs and closes the door to his room quietly.

Later, Sherlock is flopped over the sofa, and John makes his way to Sherlock's side. He doesn't know what he expects, but it's not John's hands softly touching the top of his head, along with the words, "Bad day?" Sherlock reminds himself that he's not the only one who knows a lot about the other.

The words were clipped, still angry, but his hands were communicating as well. Sherlock doesn't answer, but he leans into John's touch. John sighs. "I'm just going to say this once. I want a real answer. Do you really want me to move out?"

He suddenly feels small and vulnerable. "No."

John's hands tighten in his hair. "Maybe I want to move out." No. That word is honestly the only rational thought he's capable of. He knows this was the purpose of the, dare he name it so, experiment, but no. No, the thought of John leaving is suddenly unbearable, as much as it might save John from Sherlock and his enemies.

When he can think, he knows John won't leave. John... He cares about Sherlock. It's novel. But all he can think to say is, "Don't."

"Convince me."

Sherlock crooks his neck to look at John. "What do you want?"

"Some groveling might be nice." Sherlock can tell John's only partway joking.

Later, Sherlock does apologize. Sort of. He is sorry. He makes John tea and watches crap telly with him and John falls asleep with a smile in his face and Sherlock succumbs to the ridiculous longing he's had all day and kisses John lightly in his sleep. John will never know. John will never return these feelings. He says so all the time: _I'm not gay. We're not a couple_, as though being with Sherlock would be the worst thing imaginable.

Sometimes he mopes about that, self-pitying. He's written John three violin pieces. But it's enough to just have him around.

* * *

And then Moriarty is back and this time the game is no fun at all. Every second he's worried about John's safety. John is wonderful and brilliant. He predicts that the press will turn. He does not believe Moriarty's clever lies. He punches the Chief Superintendent, and from the proud yet sheepish look on John's face and the aghast one on Sally's, it's for no more an offense than insulting Sherlock. He trusts Sherlock even when he points a gun at his head and throws them in front of a bus.

Sherlock knows the final problem, he knows the end to this fairytale. And he will stop it.

But the cost. He has to say goodbye to John. Lovely, wonderful John. He cries genuine tears as he lies to him. He jumps and knows that John must be feeling twice his desperation and despair. And why should he not be feeling these things? The only reason Sherlock's actually alive is due to Molly. If Sherlock is feeling pain and loneliness due to lack of John in his life, then how must John feel, not knowing that they'll ever be together again at all?

* * *

**AN/ Yes, the song that Sherlock was composing in John's POV was written for John. If only he knew that. God they need to communicate.**

**I have no Brit-picker. Anyone see anything amiss? Do you think Sherlock is IC? I think he does love John, but that love is messy and difficult. I tried to show that. **

**Rating may go up… Not anything explicit, I don't think.**


	2. Two Men Are Trying to Be Stoic

The thing John hates the most is the pity. He can take people calling Sherlock a fraud, because he know's he's not - that he wasn't, he corrects to the past tense. And he knows that the accusations that he was in on the "scam" fall flat as well, so he has no reason to fear them. But the pity, the looks and whispers he gets, those are just painful. _That poor John Watson, taken in by that charlatan. Such a nice man. It's such a pity that he was so loyal to a bad man, and the poor dear's still delusional. Pining I suppose._

He's never liked pity. That was what had drawn him to Sherlock in the first place; he was the first person he'd met after Afghanistan who didn't treat him as if he were about to break.

John had lost people before. He had been in the army after all. His parents had died within a week of one another when he was twenty-four, and there'd been Mary and numerous friends during his service. But didn't like to compare any past experiences to his loss of Sherlock, didn't like to dwell on them at all.

Another thing that is really beginning to irk him (John knows he's going through the classic stages of grief and is currently on anger, and he smiles bitterly at the thought of how dull Sherlock would find that) is the way that people think they can relate to him. _Oh, you lost a friend? I lost my mother last year._ As if losing a friend cannot possibly be as painful as losing one's mother.

John wants to tell these people that no, they don't understand. There are a few who can say that they've had friends who killed themselves, but that is rare. Even then, John wants to ask if they had watch, to listen as their best friend lied about everything.

He feels like he'd waited his entire life to find Sherlock, like his reason for being born was to follow him around and love him.

There are doubts in his mind, questions. How could there not be? He knows that Sherlock is - was - not a fake. Whether or not he could doubt that their relationship was based on a lie, there simply was too much evidence to the contrary. How could he have faked the Baskerville case? Carl Powers? Started fooling the police that young, did he? They didn't even listen to him then. And really, was Mycroft all a part of the deception too? The list goes on.

Everyone who knew Sherlock, really knew him, does not believe the lies at all. Unfortunately there aren't many who seem to care.

John thinks that if he had resources, help and energy, he could clear Sherlock's name. Although Sherlock's life-story does make the fabrication seem far more plausible, much of it would fall through with easily-found proof. He knows Henry Knight would offer his services in a heartbeat if asked, and Mycroft was the same, although John doubted he'd ever be on speaking terms with the elder Holmes again. He knew Mycroft was watching him, probably still out of his devotion to his brother. After all he did to protect his brother he'd let him down when he most needed him, and John could not forgive him for that.

Still, there's not much John can do for a public that doesn't want to hear. Either the people John talks to are so utterly stupid and convinced that Sherlock is a fake that nothing John can say will sway them, or they just don't care. He doesn't know which is worse.

Mycroft is paying the rent on Baker Street under the assumption that he will be moving back. This may be because John hasn't moved any of Sherlock's stuff. And Mycroft is usually right. Maybe John will move back, but at the moment he can't bear it.

John hasn't believed for a second that Sherlock killed himself because he couldn't take the tarnishing of his reputation. He'd never cared about such things. He blames Moriarty. Sherlock must have been forced into it all somehow.

Everyone has been treating John as if he's about to break; he's come full circle he supposes. When John can move past his anger at Lestrade, they spend time together, both quietly mourning the loss of a great man, it seems to John that the Detective Inspector is the only one who understands, however marginally. He had known Sherlock for six years.

It's strange that even Mycroft is giving him space, treating him like a delicate flower. Mrs Hudson, bless her, as well. Molly has been acting so skittish that John is almost perplexed.

John is not a mourning widow. He will make it through this. He can't get to a point in his life where someone will ask him, "John, is this what Sherlock would have wanted for you?" because John will probably break out in tears or laughter and think that he never knew what Sherlock wanted.

* * *

But maybe they were all right, because now John thinks just he might be broken.

He's only cried once since Sherlock's funeral. The funeral was where he made his weakness-is-bad exception, because it was almost expected that one cry at funerals. Besides, only Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft (how he'd resented the man's presence) were in attendance. Since then he'd cried at Sherlock's grave, but that had been short lived.

But one day, six weeks after the funeral, he's standing outside the door to his flat after another dull, unbearable day at the clinic, and there's music playing loudly from his neighbor's flat. It's some eighty's song that John would remember if his head wasn't so fuzzy and by God, why is the song so _damn happy_?

And then he's slumped against his door sobbing his eyes out. He's probably made it through all five stages of grief now; here he is, accepting that Sherlock is dead. God, reality's a bitch.

He cries alone in his flat until his tears run out and he lies on his bed but does not sleep.

* * *

()

* * *

Sherlock is in mourning, he thinks. Mourning for the death wonderful times spent with John. If John is feeling a margine of the sadness and loneliness that Sherlock is feeling, he would feel terrible. In reality, his pain so much worse.

The world is suddenly a thousand times more hateful. He knows he must leave London soon, but for now he is staying, quietly watching John from afar and gathering intel via the homeless network and Mycroft. Every person Sherlock sees is dull, with their dull little lives and predictablitity and not-John-ness. He used to look at the world and see its excitement and mysteries, but he sees nothing now.

This is like withdrawal; there's no other way to describe it. Withdrawal from John Watson. But John is not cocaine; he was not ripping Sherlock's life apart. He was making it better, smoothing Sherlock's harsh lines and being himself in his cuddly knitted jumpers.

The day he knows the must leave London soon, his heart is heavy. He wants to tell John the truth, wants to ease his pain, but he can't. He just can't. He thinks, later, if he makes it through this dissembling of Moriarty's web, John will need it better explanation than "I just couldn't." He will be angry.

Sherlock thinks with longing of being able to take John with him on his "adventure," as John might coin it. He thinks that he might have had some qualms about John's safety in this hypothetical situation, but he knows his friend (is that the right word? He loves John; he can admit that now, but even before he'd thought they needed a stronger word. Perhaps they have no need for labels) is more than capable of handling himself.

Sadly that isn't possible. If John were to vanish, there would be no accounting for what would happen to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. In fact, he doesn't know how closely John is being watched. Moriarty was obsessed with his story. Any change in John's behavior or habits might result in his death.

So he watches John in his brief period of waiting before he begins to scour the earth for those who would dare endanger his friends.

Only once does he come into contact with him. He supposes he has Lestrade to blame for this.

John has mostly avoided vices in his grief, not succumbing to his family's natural affinity for alcoholism. But Sherlock knows that going to the pub with Lestrade will not have good results, so he watches John closely that night.

Lestrade is even more pissed than John, and John ordered him a cab and sent him home. He's begun to stumble home (his new flat was only a little ways away) and Sherlock follows closely.

He'd been right to, because John wanders out into the street seemingly in a daze. Sherlock swears as a car blares its horn. He's glad he'd dyed his hair ginger two days ago, but it's not likely John will even remember this in the morning.

He pulls John to safety and wants to hold him against his chest, but even John's inebriated mind will find that strange. He takes a vice-hold on John's arms and begins to haul him towards his home, ignoring his mumbled protests. John's in no state to fight back. This reminds Sherlock of how vulnerable his John is, and his grip tightens.

He dumps John outside his flat and beats a hasty retreat. He knows he'll have to leave London soon. He hates to do this, but he sends Mycroft a text asking him to watch John. He'll ask Molly the same later.

For now, he has new identities to form and an organization to pull apart.

* * *

**AN/ Please review? **

**The scene with John breaking down had me a bit teary because it's just something I see him doing.**

**Okay, this is the torment chapter. Things will start to look up, I swear. **

**Please don't expect the updates to continue this fast.**


	3. Suffering That Brings Them Together

**AN/ I know it's three years in the original stories but we've come a long way as far as weapons and communication go so I imagine that it would take less time to take down Moriarty's organization. Plus, I just can't torture them anymore ;)  
**

**Oh, and if you don't mind, all you many people who have subscribed, can you leave me a review? I'm not kidding when I say it both motivates me and gives me hints at what you guys like. Just one line will do.  
**

**On with the show!  
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* * *

It's been a year and eight days since Sherlock committed suicide. It's probably not healthy to be counting, but John simply does not give a damn what's healthy anymore.

Ella had been pressing a bit too hard about his relationship with Sherlock, and John can almost see the thoughts that are flitting through her head, and so he's quit going. She is right that he's suppressing the things he never said to Sherlock, but he can't even tell Sherlock's grave that he loved him, so how can he say it to her?

John's human interaction has been narrowed down to Mrs Hudson, an occasional call from a strangely guilty-sounding Molly, a pint with Lestrade and completely unwanted attention from Mycroft. He sees his sister even less now, even though she seems almost as convinced as he is that Sherlock was not a fraud. ("A proper genius and no mistake," she'd said the week after Sherlock's... fall. "Besides, you always were a real judge of character, Johnny.")

Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are his comforters, or at least, the only ones he'll allow. Neither of them seem to think it's strange that he hasn't "moved on" yet. Lestrade needs comfort as well; he feels horribly guilty for his part in Sherlock's death (something John can relate to as he hates the last words he said to Sherlock's face) although he only ever admits it drunk. Mrs Hudson is far older and wiser than John and she had obviously viewed Sherlock as a son figure. They quietly eat together some nights, John holding Mrs Hudson when she cries.

John suspects the only reason he hasn't lost his job due to Mycroft, his "minor position in the British government" and his well-deserved guilt. John's hand has regained its tremor. That's what he gets for being an adrenaline junkie with a constant need to be useful. He can hardly focus on his dull, boring job.

Oh dear lord he sounds like Sherlock, even in his own head. He used to be grateful for the normalcy that this job brought him, but now all it's doing is reminding him of the lack of Sherlock in his life. Just like everything else, apparently. He'll see a tall man in a coat or someone calling someone else an idiot and feel like he's going to shatter.

He wants a job were he can help people, one that he can obsess over until he forgets everything else. But there's simply no way he's going to Mycroft and who else would take him? His hand shakes too much for surgeon work and he can't return to the army. Those are the two things he's best at.

Holding a grudge against Mycroft is a wonderful way to cope. John thinks that helping John despite his grudge is Mycroft's way of coping. He's used to helping people who don't want it.

One day it's actually Mycroft that pulls up in the sleek black, not one of his minions that John can shout abuse at. It's been awhile since John saw Mycroft and he wants to see if he can pull a flicker of emotion from the "Ice Man's" eyes.

John had seemed to be able to do that at first. At Sherlock's funeral, he'd been cold and sharp, and all of Mycroft's quiet words were shoved aside. The man had looked genuinely hurt. John had almost felt guilty; his brother had meant very much to him.

But the next time after that, the day after John's meltdown outside his flat door, had been different, and any guilt John might have felt was gone. The next time he'd seen him, Mycroft had looked... relieved and almost happy, despite the concern he was showing for John's well-being. He'd seethed at the man; did he have no heart? Was he already over his brother's suicide, which had partially been his fault?

And so Mycroft gracing John with his dubiously wonderful presence was not appreciated.

"Ah, Doctor Watson." Mycroft smiles tightly at his glare. "You are doing well, I presume?"

John sighs. He is tired. He just doesn't have the energy to spar with Mycroft tonight. "What do you want Mycroft?"

"I'd very much appreciate it if you would get in the car."

John levels his gaze. "No."

"John..." Mycroft's voice actually sounds strained. "Please."

His head jerks to look at the older Holmes. "Why? Why should I listen to you?"

"This is for your safety."

He snorts at that. "And why do you think I care?"

"You're not suicidal." That statement sounds almost unsure, like Sherlock when sentiment is - was - involved in a case. John fights the urge to snort again. Or screw his face up in pain.

"No, I'm not. And if I was, would it be your business?"

"Everything concerning my brother is my business."

"Your brother is dead, Mycroft." John turns away, gripping his cane, strongly reminded of their first meeting. "I'm not getting in your car."

Suddenly, there is a sharp pain in his neck and he blinks as it registers that Mycroft has plunged a syringe into his neck. He grabs the other man's arm as he sinks to the ground. "I thought... you didn't do... leg work?"

Mycroft lowers him the rest of the way, and he is actually smiling. John's going to punch that smirk of his face when... he wakes... up...

"Oh, but for you, I make an exception." _God damn it_... The last thing he thinks before he passes out is, _Sherlock is not the only Holmes who has to have the last word._ Then everything is dark.

* * *

()

* * *

Everything hurts. His leg, mostly, and Sherlock suspects he'll be sore everywhere else tomorrow. He needs John. John will make everything better. No, John can't be here. Sherlock has to keep him safe. He fights through the haze of narcotics and settles his mind.

Moriarty had been a worthy opponent, but Moran is proving himself a difficult and sly man himself. He is as much of a crack shot as Sherlock's John, although Sherlock is proud that they're pretty much equals despite Moran having years of sniper training and John simply having basic training.

Still, Sherlock admires that the man was able to his leg from a good distance away with Sherlock in a disguise and low levels of light. He did not admire the man for pointing a gun at John's head last year.

The rest of Moriarty's network together had not been as much trouble as this one man. Sherlock was not sure what the criminal mastermind had done to earn such relentless devotion. Then again, what had he done gain John's? But there was a clear difference in the relative relationships; he cared about John (_You love him_, his increasingly annoying heart added, although his mind could admit it now as well.) Moriarty had not cared about Sebastian Moran more than one would a particularly useful tool.

Sherlock's first impression of the man had not even given him a glimpse of the man's full potential and threat. He'd seemed like a muscle-bound idiot who couldn't count to ten. His deductions had told him ex-army sniper, honorable discharge, likes tigers, and strangely loyal to Moriarty beyond money.

But the man is intelligent. He should have known merely from the fact that he had been Moriarty's second-in-command. Moriarty couldn't stomach idiots anymore than Sherlock could except for entertainment. He is a skilled at strategy, and Sherlock had found that in his pursuit of the man, he was steadily becoming the hunted one until he had found himself uneasily back in London, worried for John's safety. That's when he'd been shot in a warehouse. Mycroft had been endlessly smug after he'd been assured that Sherlock would live, but agreed to keep John safe at Sherlock' somewhat frazzled request.

Mycroft's guilt is fun to play with. Besides, he could always tell Mummy that Mycroft had given information to Moriarty. He doubted she'd except the "Queen and country" excuse.

Telling Mummy he was alive had been first priority. He'd doubted she would be able to take his death. He'd had to go through Mycroft to tell her. He didn't fear for her for the same reason he didn't fear for Mycroft (not that he would anyway); good acting and money enough to protect themselves.

Molly had been his flicker of light in the darkness (oh god the meds are doing things to his head; that sounds like something off John's blog). She'd sent him updates and pictures of John (how had she known he wanted pictures? He hadn't even asked) and listened to him ramble to her on the phone. He been underestimating her for years it seemed.

But he's losing focus again. Moran is also interesting for several other reasons. Before Moriarty, he had shown no criminal inclinations at all. The only questionable thing he'd ever done previously was hunt tigers. He is a large man, handsomely built with strangely innocent gray eyes. His loyalty to Moriarty, even after his death, is astounding and he seemed genuinely aggrieved that he is dead.

As interesting as Sherlock found the man, he hates him simply for keeping from getting home to his John. (When had John become his? He noticed his increasing use of the possessive and wonders if John should be informed of his new ownership. What if John doesn't want to be his? What if he hates Sherlock for lying to him and leaving him alone? But he is John's as well.)

He is slightly embarrassed to have passed out in front of Mycroft. He had been shot, but still. And he had to suffer the indignity of being taken unconscious to Mycroft's home and treated. The damn pain meds are dulling his head and the doctors are all morons.

He hears Mycroft approaching (his gait is easily recognizable from its slight drag on the left foot) with something in tow. He says loudly, "I hope, brother dear, that you've managed to bring me a doctor whose degree was not purchased on the internet."

He can hear the insufferable smirk in his brother's voice when he says, "I think I've managed to do just that."

When Sherlock sits up on his makeshift hospital bed to see the unconscious body of John Watson being pulled into his room on a gurney, he immediately collapses again and swears he is going to shove his brother's umbrella up a certain orifice and then hug him for the first time in his life.

* * *

**AN/ Evil cliffhanger!**

**How obvious is it that I'm making this up as I go? I know where I'm going with this, but some things were made up off the top of my head.**

**I'm a fan of BAMF!John, so since he kinda got kidnapped here (even if it's just Mycroft) I promise he'll get bad ass soon.**

**Also, I've never been particularly good at witty dialogue. Sorry if Mycroft and John didn't get enough quips.**

**I'm kinda a MorMor fan, but sadly there's none of that here. (Actually, it is there, it just happens to be one-sided...) I will, however, endeavor to make him the most interesting villain I can.**


	4. Hurt Is Relieved and More Is Created

John is fairly sure he's dreaming. It's just become lucid now. _Side effect of tranquilizers_, the doctor side of his head informs him. But wait, he's been drugged? Why - _Mycroft_.

In his dream, he can hear Mycroft talking. The reason he knows he's dreaming is because he can hear Sherlock as well. Unless he's dead but that seems likely as Mycroft is the secret ruler of the universe. He doesn't want anything to happen to John, so it won't.

It's obvious he's drugged, with the strange thoughts he's thinking. Even if his memory of Mycroft and the needle were false. _Secret master of the universe, really? _the Sherlock-sounding part of his brain said.

Speaking of Sherlock, his dream is starting to sound interesting. He concentrates on it a bit harder.

"I said to keep him safe, Mycroft! I'm not - "

"Ready?" Mycroft sighed. "He will be safe here, Sherlock."

"He would be safe elsewhere, as well!" the deep baritone rumbles. John knows that it's Sherlock's voice, head-produced or not. No one else really has that deep and smooth of a voice.

"Your debating skills are clearly far superior to mine. I concede to your better judgement." John agrees with Mycroft. Sherlock's words are no where near his usual sharpness and intelligence. Perhaps this is because John is making him up.

"Lowest form of wit, brother mine." A pause. "I'm not finished. I only needed a little more time. Moran is the only one left."

"And our estimable doctor would be a valuable asset in that venture."

"_Mycroft_."

"Oh well, you've caught me. Sherlock, I just can't watch you suffer anymore. You are being a coward." In a harder tone: "Sherlock, for god's sake, quit torturing yourself and _tell him_."

"Stay out of my buisness, Mycroft! Must you always interfere?"

John decides this has gone on long enough. He had thought he was past hearing Sherlock's voice.

When he tries to sit up, all that manages to happen is a groan. The dream has stopped though; he no longer hears the voices. Good. He blinks his eyes open slowly to be greeted by a vast expanse of white ceiling.

"John?" says the voice, and by god, it sounds far too much like Sherlock. John's throat constricts painfully and he struggles to a sitting position.

He's in a comfortable looking room, although it doesn't look lived-in at all. There's an bed set against the wall opposite him, with a heart monitor and IV machine beside it, the IV machine attached to Sherlock Holmes, who is staring at him, his mouth slightly open.

John stares right back for several seconds, and then clears his throat. "Right," he hears himself saying. "I'd never much believed in the afterlife." He turns to Mycroft, who his brain has managed to register is there in the room as well. "Do you mind telling me how you got us both killed?" He sounds indignant, but he's actually just curious. Death hasn't been much of an issue for him for awhile now. Then he adds, keeping his options open, "Or was the drug you pumped me full of a strong hallucinogen?"

Mycroft doesn't get to answer before... Sherlock is stammering out words. John knows it's not Sherlock now; Sherlock never sounded this unsure. "John. John, I'm not dead."

John's feeling a little unstable, a little hysterical. He starts laughing and says, "That's just what you want me to think," before collapsing back on... whatever it is his body is resting on.

"No! No, John look at me!" _Keep you eyes fixed on me. _A stab of pain shoots through his heart.

But he has never been able to turn Sherlock down, even a fake one. And he just sounds so desperate. He turns his head to look at the younger Holmes in time to see the older one leaving the room, giving his younger brother a hard look.

"John..." Sherlock sounds lost, and John wants to comfort him. Even if he isn't real, Sherlock shouldn't be sad.

"It's okay, Sherlock," John tries to assure, although his voice wavers. "Take your time."

Sherlock looks as though he's been slapped. "John... I'm..." He looks a though he's having to force the next word out of his throat. "Sorry. I'm so sorry, John." There is simply no way that this Sherlock is real. John's subsconcious is probably just giving him a nice soothing dream.

"I had to leave you John. I didn't want to." Sherlock's words are a rush, garbled and overly emotional. "Moriarty - he - he had snipers. On you, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. If I hadn't jumped, you would have died."

John is by now pretty sure he's not dead, so there's only one other explanation. "I understand," he says simply.

Sherlock looks up sharply. "You... you do?"

John smiles bitterly. "My subconscious is crying out for help."

Sherlock looks impatient, a look that is very well known to John. "No! I know you've been drugged, John, but you aren't this stupid, surely. I thought my influence had done a little for your inferior mind." Oh, John can deal with this much easier.

"That's rich, coming from you, Mister jump-off-a-building." Okay, not his best comeback ever.

There's a little smile from Sherlock. "I've... missed you, John."

John can see no reason not to indulge himself. "Missed you too, you great git."

Sherlock's eyes bore into his. "Do you still think you're dreaming?"

John answers flatly. "You're dead, Sherlock."

The consulting detective rubs a hand at his eye and sighs. John takes the opportunity to sit up; craning his neck like that was beginning to hurt.

"Are you able to stand, John?" Sherlock asks. John nods and stands slowly, hand gripping the gurney he was lying on.

"Come here," Sherlock requests quietly. John finds his legs moving on there own despite his limp, towards Sherlock. The pale man reaches out and grabs John's outstretched hand. "Feel my pulse," he orders, and as ever, John obeys.

There is a pulse, strong and vital and _alive_.

Sherlock's hands grip his shoulders, holding him in place. "John. Look at me, John." He didn't know he had looked away. He meets the ice blue eyes with his own.

At first, there had been a tiny hope in his mind that Sherlock was alive. It had always been small; he had seen the man jump, after all, and felt his pulse. But still, if anyone could be able to fake such a thing, it was Sherlock Holmes. But as time had gone on, the hope had slowly died. Sherlock would have contacted him, he thought. And it just wasn't good to keep holding on to such delusions, and so he had let it go.

But now he didn't know what to think. Sherlock... was alive? He wasn't dreaming? And Sherlock hadn't _told him_?

Sherlock must think he thinks that he's still dreaming, because he begins to ring out deductions. About John, at first, and how Mycroft picked him up, but then it must occur to him that John's subconscious would know that, so he starts on Mycroft, and his nurse.

Then he settles back into his pillows, looking worn out, and asks, "There. Could your subconscious think that up?"

And John's world is spinning. Everything has been thrown out of balance and all he can think is, _Sherlock is alive._

The hands are back at his shoulders, trapping him. Eventually, John chokes out, "How?"

Sherlock's face is merely inches from his as he answers. "Molly Hooper. She helped me."

"Molly?" Sherlock let Molly help him?

"Yes. You see, Moriarty didn't see her as someone I cared about, so she wasn't watched. There was a laundry container to catch me at the bottom of the fall. You remember how I had you stay in place, yes?" Oh, yes John remembers. He's relived the moments often enough. "The blood was fake, as was my death report. Mycroft identified the body and Molly faked the rest."

John can't process this. "But your pulse..."

"Classic. Rubber ball under my arm." Sherlock looks a little proud of himself despite his pleading tones and contrite words. John could punch that face.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice breaks a little. He's amazed he's gotten this far without falling apart.

"I couldn't. I wanted to, John, you have to believe me." Oh he has to believe him. Rich, yet again. "I had to protect you John."

"Sherlock... I - "

"You don't understand, John. You were being monitored. If there was any indication from you that I was alive - and I trust you John, but I don't trust you acting - then you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would have been in danger, maybe killed."

"Why didn't you - "

"Take you with me?" Sherlock needs to stop cutting him off. He's not giving John time to get angry. Maybe that's his objective. "I wanted to, John, but what would have happened to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade? I couldn't take them as well. I've been taking down Moriarty's web."

"You... made me watch." He is stuck on this.

"I'm sorry. It had to be convincing."

Suddenly it's all too much. John can't process this, that Sherlock's been in danger. Sherlock is too logical. Every one of John's questions has been answered. And he still feels like his heart has been ripped out.

He has to get away. He's feeling so much. Anger, relief, anger at himself for being relieved. He needs out.

When Sherlock's hand tentatively reaches up as if to touch his face, John wrenches out of Sherlock's hold. Ignoring Sherlock, he turns away, muttering, "I need time alone Sherlock."

He hears Sherlock yelling for Mycroft and as John makes his way out the room he realizes he has no idea where he is. He looks down the end of the hall and sees an exit, and that's all he needs to know.

Then Mycroft is there, blocking his path. John hates him for not telling him, for being so in control. "Get out of my way," he growls.

"I'm afraid that's not an option Doctor Watson. You will be staying here for the time being. I'm sure you undestand that it's for your own safety."

John doesn't even grace that with an answer and brushes past him towards the exit.

Then he is being manhandled by several large, strong men. John was never one to go down without a fight and manages to knock a man twice his size unconscious, but in the end there's not much he can do.

They put him in a room and lock it. He spends some time thinking about breaking Mycroft's face in.

But if they think he's just going to sit and wait, they've got another thing coming. The room is nice and quiet so John can process, but that's not going to last long.

So. Sherlock. Alive.

He can't stop himself from being angry. Sherlock's explanation was sound but John is an emotional creature.

It scares him to know how quickly he's going to forgive Sherlock, although it's likely he'll punch him first. He certainly hasn't stopped loving him. But he needs time away from him. Sherlock is just going to have to deal with that.

But now he knows his time is limited and he should make the most of it. Even if it means earning Sherlock's disdain and being rejected, he is going to tell Sherlock how he feels.

* * *

()

* * *

Sherlock is not pining, nor is he sulking, no matter what Mycroft says. He feels slightly disappointed, but he does not blame John for not wanting to see him.

Mycroft is being ridiculous. Tell John how he feels indeed. And after that he'll forget the periodic table and give up crime forever. No, he needs John with him always, and John does not want such attention.

It had been so long since he'd seen his John that his breath was taken away. Pictures from Molly were wonderful, but being in the same room as him, touching his arms, looking into his eyes... Those things were like solving a triple homocide and very good dim sum wrapped up together with large crowds who appreciate his genius.

He knows John needs time to think. Knows that he must be feeling dozens of painful feelings. That his mildly clever little head is wrapping around the concept that his best friend (that's what he'd called Sherlock on his blog. Sherlock wants to be so much more, but it's lovely to be someone's _best_ friend, to be _John's_ best friend, when there are so many people who like John Watson) is not really dead.

But Sherlock Holmes is selfish and has never claimed to be anything but. So later, when his leg feels as though it can hold his weight, he ignores that John needs time and makes his way to his blogger's room.

It is empty.

* * *

**AN/ I'm killing you guys with the cliffhangers. **

**I LOVE YOU PEOPLE. I've never gotten such enthusiastic responses before. You're the best!**


	5. One Avoids Problems, One Meets Danger

**AN/ Still not British. See anything potentially embarrassing? Let me know! There are a tone of things I'm unsure on.  
**

* * *

John is in the highest spirits he's been in for months. This, he knows, was partly due to the drugs, partially to the adrenaline and self-satisfaction that came from breaking out of his room and thwarting the Holmes brothers' attempts to keep him contained, and, loathe as he was to admit it, the fact that Sherlock _was alive. _

Really, it's simply insulting to be so under-estimated. If Sherlock had had a hand in how he was locked up, he is sure he never would have got out because his friend knew the extent of his strengths. And really, Mycroft, a simple lock, no guard and nothing to even stop him as he snuck out the front door? Granted, John is more than a bit skilled at going undetected, practice in the army and his size factoring into this, but he'd half expected to be stopped or knocked out again. Instead, he'd simply walked out.

On the other hand, this might all be crafty manipulation from one Mycroft Holmes. John is choosing not to dwell on that option.

His limp is gone. John is also choosing to think that this is because of the sudden excitement and not the return of Sherlock from beyond the grave.

John is in a lot of denial today.

Instead on dwelling on all these things, he's walking, running, reveling in mere the fact that he can. He pushes the fact that he can see the CCTV cameras following him out of his head and focuses on... nothing. He empties his head of everything ("And wasn't that easy," says the Sherlock-sounding part of his head snidely) and sets a quick, even pace across the alleyways and streets that he and Sherlock used to own. Maybe he's running from his problems but he figures he deserves it.

He hadn't known were he was when he left Mycroft's haunts and he had paid no attention to were he was going, so it's a shock when he ends up in Regent's Park. He realizes a little slowly that it's nearly noon. So... he'd been kidnapped by Mycroft (no matter how many times it happens it's still kidnapping) at around 2300 last night, since he'd had the late shift at his job and had walked home slowly. Who knew how long he'd been out. He thought he'd been walking for only a little while, but it must have been much longer than that because when he'd left, the sun had been rising.

He sits down heavily on a bench and tries not to think about Sherlock.

First he people-watches. There's an absolutely adorable lesbian couple strolling who reminds him way too much of Clara and Harry in the early years of their marriage. Good. He can rest in the sadness that causes. It's not so bad. Something to focus on. There's a mum who's letting her two little terrors run rampant. John likes kids, but he cannot help but find this annoying. One of them is throwing a tantrum that reminds him a bit of - oh_ god damn it_.

He forces his eyes to a strange vagrant. People all over are giving him strange looks, so John doesn't feel bad staring. There's a teen talking on her mobile. Then a woman on a jog, a balding man, and then a man with a black coat and a scarf - does the universe _hate_ him?

He puts his head in his hands and starts to think about his war days, reminiscing and focusing only on the good. He thinks of the completely incredible skies and long nights pushing aside fears and laughing into the dark. Now that he thinks about it, he wants to see Bill Murray. He'd always wanted to introduce him to Sher -

John gets to his feet angrily. Is there no fighting it? After only a few hours of knowing Sherlock was alive, his whole damn life was already revolving around the man again. Had it even ever stopped? He starts walking, his limp coming back a little. He pulls out his wallet, thinking of catching a cab and groans when he remembers that there wasn't any money in it.

But when he opens it, the entire thing is filled with money, nearly a hundred pounds. There's no note, but he knows how it got there. _Oh my god oh my god I'm going to have nightmares just from the thought of Mycroft being near me when I'm unconscious...  
_

And that practically confirms his suspicions about manipulation. Due to his increasing paranoia, he realizes he's being followed. Every time he turns around, there's someone in his periphery.

John chooses to ignore them and catches a cab. Mycroft is an all-seeing power and John doubts he could get away from him if he wanted. When the cab pulls up at his flat, the thanks his driver and climbs the stairs. He looks around his flat with new eyes.

It's boring, painfully plain and doesn't look lived in at all. Suddenly John misses Baker Street. He misses the skull, he misses tantrums, he misses nightly chases, he misses bloody experiments and violin at three in the morning and _Sherlock_.

And if Sherlock asks him to move back in, he knows he won't be able to say no. That both excites him and frightens him, because he is still feeling hurt. _And I said dangerous, and here you are. _Some things never change.

For now, he grabs his gun, which fits into his hands so well, hands which don't shake and are far to glad to be back in the battlefield.

* * *

()

* * *

Sherlock hates his brother. He hates him more than he did when let Sherlock's pet snake free, or when he left for Uni, or when he tricked Sherlock into saving a knight from public scandal. He hates him even more than Anderson and _Star Wars _and... kittens.

Mycroft _let John go_ when he escaped and now he won't let Sherlock find him.

Oh, Mycroft knows where John is. This is patently obvious from how much time he has spent on his phone with that 'Anthea' woman. She is the only of his operatives that he continually trusts to run the CCTV. If he does allow another, they are usually relocated.

But he hasn't even told Sherlock that he was watching John; he'd had to deduce it. Mycroft keeps assuring him that John is safe, but he doesn't trust his brother in the least. For god's sake, Moran is still out there!

Mycroft is feeding him lines about John needing space and freedom. Well, that's never stopped Mycroft before.

If John could break out, then so can he.

* * *

He's caught on his first attempt breaking the lock on his door.

The second time, he almost makes it to the exit. Almost.

The third he doesn't make it down the hall and a guard is posted outside his room. The door has a stronger lock placed in.

He's convincing himself that John only escaped because Mycroft let him when brother _dearest _informs him that John made it out of the building and out on the street before it was even noticed that he was missing. Mycroft had made sure that he had necessary previsions..

Nearly a day passes before Sherlock is allowed to go, the doctor reporting that his leg is close to healed. Mycroft warns him of the danger, but Sherlock doesn't care. His John is out there, and so is Moran. Sherlock was just fine for a whole year full of people trying to shoot him.

Mycroft won't tell him where John is, so he goes into his Mind Palace, into his John-room. He predicts all of the possible places that John could have gone.

John wouldn't necessarily be hiding, so he makes a set of places for a hiding John and one for a John who is simply going about his business.

He starts by checking his grave. He actually doubts that John is there, but it's possible that he's been there in the last 29 hours (and counting since he's last seen John). It seems he hasn't, but Sherlock is not the best at deducing footprints. Then John's apartment. There is a staggering lack of John, and the place depresses him a bit. This is no place for his doctor to be living. It is, however, obvious that he has been there.

Angelo hasn't seen him, nor another of their regular places for food. He almost calls Lestrade (they've been keeping in touch according to Molly) but he's not ready to reveal himself to the man. That will come when he's ready to prove his innocence.

He texts Molly and gets a negative. But he won't go to Mycroft. Never. Well, if this goes on too much longer... maybe.

Then he goes to Baker Street.

He knows he's been avoiding it. Mrs Hudson is there, and he doesn't want to... startle her. He'll make it better than he did for John. Also, he feels as though there is no way he will be able to go there with out becoming sentimental.

And he's right because as he makes his way up the seventeen steps, because he's feeling... feelings. What is this warm yet painful fluttering? Nostalgia? Hope? Longing?

He had had the key to the door in his coat pocket when he jumped; he still has it, on a chain around his neck so it wouldn't get lost. His heart beats harder at the obvious evidence of someone having entered the flat; the things that are upset. He doubts it was Mrs Hudson as seems she is not in town. His John is _here_.

He practically runs up the stairs and charges into the living room, yelling, "John!" only to be met by the muzzle of a sig sauer.

_Oh, stupid_, he thinks, as a calm Sebastian Moran points his gun at Sherlock's temple and smiles grimly. "Knew one of you'd turn up eventually." He gestures to John's armchair. "Please sit." Sherlock is perhaps a bit shocked, and almost comments that he can't sit in John's chair. But since Sherlock is neither stupid (questionably after _this_) nor is he insane, he takes the seat.

Moran takes the seat opposite and eyes him. "Well, I thought your friend would be the predictable one and come here. Nice to be proved wrong I suppose." He smiles, this time a bit more off-kilter. "It's all the same thing in the end. Bait is bait after all."

Sherlock is feeling a little ill and some part of him is still looking around for John, confused that he's not there. "Oh?" he manages.

"Hm." Moran's hand is still steady on his gun. Sherlock needs data, needs a plan. "How's your leg? Not in too much pain, are you?"

Sherlock shakes his head and says, "No thanks to you," with entirely too much bravado. He almost winces.

Moran nods and stands. Sherlock makes no move to follow him, and Moran gestures with his gun. "Up, Holmes." Sherlock is led from 221b Baker Street, and all he can think to do is glare at the CCTV cameras in despair. He desperately grasps for a plan.

* * *

**AN/And so instead of going for the John-gets kidnapped-and-caring/BAMF-Sherlock-appears route I decided for the opposite. The cliffhangers killing you? That will just drag you back for more :P  
**

**I wanted to tell John that no, the universe does love him, it's just that far, far to many people like him. Specifically his pain and suffering. We fangirls don't know what we want...  
**

**Sorry, but I just had to think of things Sherlock would hate and I imagined John having him watch Star Wars because it's common knowledge and Sherlock moaning about it for weeks. For some reason, I think he hates kittens too...  
**


	6. Comfort, Tea, Helplessness and Insanity

**Rating has been moved up due to naughty(er) words. You have been warned.  
**

* * *

There is an overwhelming want to laugh that sweeps over John at the quite frankly incredulous look that is on Mycroft Holmes face. He looks a little as though he's just been informed that a kitten has suddenly gone hostile and blown up half of London. Then John realizes that he's a kitten in this metaphor and decides to drop it. Maybe the incredulousness of Mycroft should be compared to the man's face if he was told his brother had become a God-fearing monk.

He does chuckle a little instead of full-on laughing and Mycroft's face recovers to a look of lofty disdain. John is very used to that look and it quite annoys him and so he quits chuckling.

"I would ask you where you have been since you managed to drop off my radar, but now it seems a bit obvious," Mycroft says, gesturing around the room.

John is comfortably settled in one of Mycroft's armchairs, wishing he had some tea so as to further the appearance of comfort. Or just to have tea in general. He could use a cuppa.

It's simply too much; all in one day, to have avoided the surveillance of Mycroft Holmes, snuck into his private offices at the Diogenes Club and is now sitting calmly, staring down his nose at the owner with ease. He wants to shout his victory to the sky but he settles for giggling again. Mycroft has severely under-estimated him, not that he'd admit it. Or this could be more manipulation -

"Why are you here, may I ask?" says _the_ British government.

"Well," he starts, "I didn't really want your protection at first. I needed some space, as I'm sure you deduced because you didn't try to grab me again. But _obviously_ - " he uses his best Holmes smarter-than-the-rest-of-you-mortals voice - " there's danger out there at the moment. You wanted to lock me up and Sherlock told me he was taking down Moriarty's network. I didn't particularly want to see either of you but I did want your protection. So your offices seemed to be the best option." He smirked. "It was admittedly a bit hard to get in here, but you've kidnapped me here enough times that I know the workers. Not all of them like you very much. Some of them could be persuaded to... offer assistance."

Okay, _that _felt good. Oh yes, John Watson is a force to be reckoned with.

Mycroft twitches and raises an eyebrow. "I see." He takes the seat opposite John. "You would make a wonderful operative, John." Is that a subtle question? John decides it is.

"No way in hell," John replies cheerily. "Working for you has the same level of appeal to me as gouging out my own eyes."

"That's what I thought. Besides, who would save my brother's life while making doe-eyes at him whenever he looks away?" Before John can even respond to that beyond going red - _Oh my god Mycroft knows, of course Mycroft knows_ - the elder Holmes continues: "I assume you have no problem with my approaching you now as you have opted not to use your gun yet."

Ah, the Holmes instinctive use of deduction and unearthing of embarrassment in an attempt to regain domination of the situation. That's okay. They both know John has won this round. He still doesn't know how to respond to the other man's first statement, so he says steadily, "I wouldn't make it out of this office alive if I shot you."

"Ah, but you made it into these offices, didn't you?" There is grudging respect in those words. John sighs in relief as the subject on his feelings for Sherlock seems to have been dropped. "What are your intentions towards my brother, John?" Oh hell.

John swallows convulsively and straightens in his chair. "Not sure what you mean," he says. _Man up, Captain! _he is internally screaming. _Where is your confidence from before? You are allowed to have feelings for whomever you want! It's not something to be... embarrassed by. This is too bizarre; talking about my feelings with _Mycroft Holmes_._

"I may not be a sleuth as my brother is, John, but I am hardly blind." Oh, John has never thought that. "I see the way you look at him."

_Don't say that. Please don't say that._ What if Sherlock has noticed? John can't bare to think of losing him, not before explaining himself. Sherlock frowns on love - _just a chemical reaction, John!_ - would he ask John to leave? Maybe John can't tell him how he feels after all. But what if he regrets it later like he had before?

Confused and suddenly tired, he snaps at Mycroft. "What is this, Mycroft? An interrogation? 'You break his heart, I'll break you'? Am I not _good enough_ for him? It's not as though you have to worry about us becoming a couple or anything. I mean - Sherlock - he..." Oh god this sounds so defensive and insecure.

"Oh lord you two are absolutely hopeless." This is half-muttered from Mycroft, and only serves to confuse John further. What does he mean by that? Well, perhaps John is a bit hopeless, but Sherlock? "Besides, none of that is what I mean. Personally, I believe that you are - what is the vernacular term? - out of his league. And I don't believe I need worry about you breaking his heart and you are not so fragile either. I would, however, advise you to tread lightly around him."

Mycroft thinks... that John is out of Sherlock's league. John, ugly old John in his jumpers who can't maintain a relationship. Sherlock with his cheekbones and his swishy coat and deductions. My god, this confirms his suspicions. Mycroft Holmes is off his fucking rocker.

But that also sounded suspiciously like Mycroft's blessing. All there is for it is to admit his feelings to Sherlock, almost-certain rejection or no.

There doesn't seem to be much to say after that. Mycroft is done pressing the subject and there is no way in hell that John is leaving the safety and comfort of the offices or continuing to discuss his feelings for Sherlock with "The Ice Man."

Mycroft calls one of his minions to get them tea and they settle into comfort and more usual topics. (John isn't going to think about the fact that the man knew exactly how he wanted his tea without asking - he's not thinking about it!)

He and Mycroft have a surprisingly civil conversation and John realizes that he's practically forgiven Mycroft already as well. John wishes he was capable of holding grudges. Or maybe it's just the Holmeses.

John's halfway-serious while joking that Mycroft is going to rig the next elections when Mycroft's complex-looking phone rings. He pulls it out and frowns at John who quiets.

As the person on the end speaks Mycroft goes paler and paler. _Oh no_. _Something's wrong if it's making this man emotional.  
_

When Mycroft hangs up, John jokes weakly, "Invasion gone wrong?"

"No. My brother has got himself kidnapped by Moriarty's second in command, Sebastian Moran."

John is going to kill him.

* * *

()

* * *

Sherlock's plan is not working. This is more than A Bit Not Good.

Admiration is strongly mixed with loathing for Moran. The man is even more cunning than Sherlock had realized, and he keeps himself calm despite the consulting detective's best efforts.

That is his slowly failing plan. Rile the man up, make him angry, stupid and rash. Only he is not responding. At all.

"Did you fancy yourself in love with him then?" Sherlock says, letting arrogance and disdain sneak into his voice. "Crush on your boss? Did he use you? Fuck you?" Normally Sherlock would not debase himself with such words, but this is designed to anger. "Did he tell you he loved you? He was lying, you know. He didn't care about you any more than - "

"I know." Moran is too calm, far too calm. "He didn't love me. You aren't telling me anything I didn't know. Now from this point forward I would advise you not to make any noise."

And Sherlock is left speechless anyway. There is not anything to say to that at all. What could he say in the face of such insane devotion and love?

Moran is walking him at gun point now, having stopped the car and parked it near an empty warehouse. The man seems to fancy them.

Sherlock's only hope at the moment is the fact that he had seen the CCTV cameras following them. He knows that Mycroft will watch the videos, when he realizes what's happened to his brother, so he'd been mouthing things to them when he was facing them, hoping Mycroft will read his lips, though it's doubtful he'll take the time. But he might as well try. He says things like the bombs that Moran has (he seems to have taken after his boss) and his gun size and type.

There's truly not much that Sherlock can do at the moment. He's never been kidnapped by someone this efficient before; usually, there's more he can do. Untie the horrible knots, break his hands to escape his bonds, _something_. But Moran is not so easily defeated. The handcuffs are angled so that he can't break his hands, Moran has his weapons far out of Sherlock's reach and he's is not responding to his taunts.

They enter the warehouse. Sherlock is glad to see that he'd rightly deduced the amount of Semtex that the man was in possession of; he wouldn't want Mycroft working with false information.

Moran, again effectively, ties him securely to a chair. Sherlock has to say something or he's going to burst. "What is the point of all this?"

"Well, I have to complete Jim's story, don't I?" Moran smiles bitterly. "The deal was, you die, they live. Well you're alive. Still don't know how you did that, though I'm not too curious. Doesn't matter now. Anyway, it seems like the right thing for me to do is use you as bait then kill your friend and your brother, if he comes. Besides," and he smiles a smile that makes Sherlock sick, "there's nothing like some good, old-fashioned revenge."

No. No no no no no _no_.

Sherlock can see it in his mind's eye. John and Mycroft finding him, coming to rescue him. And everything going up.

He begins to struggle and Moran laughs. Sherlock knows what he is now; the sort who's had madness and anger boiling in him for years, probably since childhood. Moriarty had helped him harness that, and Moran had loved him for it. And now that is gone, Moran is going to blow.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something stupid when something fits suddenly in his mind. Moran is not leaving. He is holding his gun and waiting in a building full of explosives, instead of leaving and blowing the place up from a distance later.

The answer comes to his lips. "This is a suicide mission."

Moran chuckles, sounding far more insane than before. "How did you guess?"

Sherlock starts to explain exactly how he guessed, but Moran interjects, "Didn't anyone ever teach you about rhetorical questions?" and Sherlock thinks, _Yes, John did, but I'd forgotten because I haven't seen him in so long, my John. He can't come here, he can't die. _Another part of his mind says, _Oh, but he can. It's quite a statistical possibility. He'll try to rescue you, definitely. That's not the only way he could die. There are infinite ways that he could. For instance - _He tells that part of his head to shut up because no, his John can't die, logic unimportant.

He just can't.

* * *

**I see a bit too much overpowered!Mycroft in this archive. I love the character as much as the next person, but he's not infallible (I mean, he fed Moriarty info on Sherlock, let him go, and couldn't ultimately save his brother. The man's not God). So yeah, decided to let John best him. Mycroft will make a comeback, I assure you.  
**

**Poor John needs to work on his self-esteem. Maybe Sherlock will help him with that :)  
**


	7. Plans Are Made and Carried Out

**AN/ Sorry this chapter is short. It's important for me to space the action well between the two POVs.**

** This is all completed in my head now. There'll also be a sequel I've decided, about clearing Sherlock's name. **

**This itself will be ten chapters.**

* * *

"How? Sherlock was shot, wasn't he? He should have been at your house, right?" John has a lot of questions. "Are you less secure than I thought?"

Mycroft stands a little straighter, looking a bit like Sherlock when someone doesn't believe his deductions. John is starting to see more how they're related. "No, my brother, in his _infinite_ wisdom, left my dwelling, despite his still-healing leg, and set out into the city, ignoring the fact that he knows that there is an extremely skilled ex-sniper after his head."

That does sound like Sherlock, but even he's not quite that reckless. "Why would he do that?"

Mycroft levels him a look. "He was looking for you."

And now John wants to take back all his clever little plans and avoidance. He feels horrible.

Sherlock was looking for him? He supposes Sherlock was worried, or wanted to see him... John's having a hard time feeling sorry for not wanting to be protected. He's had just about enough of being protected; the past year was painful, no matter how much it was "all for his safety." But now he wishes he hadn't been so stubborn about accepting Mycroft's help. He should have just stayed willingly or they wouldn't be in this mess. He never would have guessed that Sherlock would go after him; perhaps he should have.

Mycroft can read him remarkably well (the mind reader) and sighs. "I wouldn't blame yourself for my brother's stupidity." He turns away. "I also wouldn't worry overly much. You may have been able to escape me, but Moran wants us to know where he is. Come along."

Before John can ask what he means, Mycroft is stalking away and John is following him.

He catches Mycroft in the foyer. The man is texting, a scowl firmly fixed on his face. John takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he's not the only one whose fingers have trouble with the keys or whose eyes can barely see the letters. Anything to focus on besides the hearts-rending worry.

'Anthea' is soon at their side. John has no idea when she arrived but she looks lovely and sends John a mysterious smile. He hesitantly smiles back but returns his focus to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes looks up from his phone. "They've been located." He takes 'Anthea' aside and whispers lowly to her. John is sick of being in the dark but gives them their space. He doesn't want to get in the way. Mycroft will fill him in. Or if he doesn't John will beat it out of him.

'Anthea' is dismissed and leaves abruptly, and Mycroft approaches John. "As much of an idiot Sherlock may be, he is still a genius." His lips twitch. "Although he has been kidnapped, he has managed to keep his wits about him. The CCTV footage of him picked up some messages that he mouthed at them. As I see it, Colonel Moran has enough Semtex to blow up a city block and two guns; a sig sauer and a sniper rifle. They are currently in a warehouse has CCTV cameras surrounding it on all sides.

"Moran has chosen this location, I fear, on purpose. He wishes me to be completely aware of where they are. All this and the fact that he did not simply shoot Sherlock immediately lead me to believe that this is a trap." Mycroft pauses. "I have formulated a plan."

John snorts. "Didn't take you very long."

Mycroft makes a "_Hm_" sound. "This plan may have negitive repercussions for you."

"What you really mean," John says, gritting his teeth; this is why he likes Sherlock's straightforward, brutal honesty, "is that this could be dangerous."

"Yes." Mycroft almost looks... concerned.

John grins wolfishly. "Not a problem. What do I need to do?"

* * *

()

* * *

Sherlock is deducing to pass the time.

The warehouse floor is wet (_no drains, open walls in some places, rain recently_). The chair he is tied to has scuff marks (_dragged here, at least once up a fight of stairs_). The ceiling is cracked (_old, this warehouse is old and abandoned_). The Semtex is fastened to the back of his chair (_expertly. Also why this chair was chosen and dragged_).

There's not much else to look at in the warehouse, so he starts on Moran. Scar on left cheek (_faded but not even close to gone; obtained while in the army. Indentations and line structure indicate knife wound_). There's also a scar above his right eyebrow (_very faded; Sherlock hadn't noticed until close inspection. Obtained during childhood. Fall? Not likely from angle. Thrown, most likely. Abusive parent?_) Sherlock would use this to try to anger the man but nothing has worked thus far. But perhaps his feelings or memories of his childhood are repressed? If the subject if broached and that hypothosis is true, then there will most likely be a violent emotional reaction.

Sherlock stores this away for possible later use. Normally he would test his hypothesis immediately but now is the time for caution. He is almost sure of this deduction, however, when spots another very old scar just above his colar; a cigarette burn.

Sherlock immediately remembers that John has those as well; he'd asked about them, once. John had said (made excuses to appease Sherlock's sudden burning anger, more like) that it had been when his Da was drunk; it was only once, didn't happen again. He was telling the truth; John cannot lie well at all. Sherlock had let it go because John did love his parents and they'd never been outright abusive beyond that. And now Sherlock is thinking about John and this is not good, so he pulls his mind from childhoods.

He moves to Moran's clothes. Nice, comfortable, not too expensive (_not vain; practical_). Sig sauer tucked in holster, rifle within arm's reach (_never taken by surprise; always ready for a fight_). He's standing (_didn't bring a chair for himself, isn't tired, used to standing attention_). He's well formed and keeps his hair short (_works out, runs often but not vain. Needs - needed those skills for work with Moriarty, now for hunting Sherlock_).

He is prepared to die. Every line of his posture screams it. This was the sort of love that was dangerous, the sort that resulted in crimes of passion; to Moran, life was not worth living without Moriarty.

Sherlock can understand, at least better than he could three years ago.

Moran is not wearing any sort of accessory at all: no watch, nothing in his hair, no coat (_is used to low temperture; not cold at the moment_). This does cut down on the amount of deductions Sherlock can make considerably, so he begins looking at the rifle.

It is well-loved. It has a nice case. He's definitely owned it longer than the sig sauer. It shows signs of being carefully taken apart and then put back together (_perhaps this is practice, or calms its owner down_). It probably has a name or some such nonsense.

All of this is good for two reasons; firstly it may be useful information, secondly it gives Sherlock something to dwell on besides boredom and the slight pain in his leg. He needs to keep his mind off the outcome of his capture, and he doubts Moran would enjoy Sherlock's moaning about boredom.

The other man seems to be getting anxious too. Perhaps apprehensive is a better word. Anticipation would work as well. He is enjoying his triumph and the fact that he is getting his revenge.

But now Sherlock is bored. All out of deductions. It's ridiculous, he knows, to be bored while waiting for death but he is anyway. He decides to use his stored information from before.

"Who was it?" he asks, hoping this won't go horribly wrong. If this goes the way he wishes, this will emotionally compromise the man.

"What?" Moran says, looking mildly interested.

"Who abused you as a child?" Sherlock muses. "Your father, or your mother? Or someone else?"

Moran pauses, and there it is, a flicker of _something_. But it's gone quickly, and Moran actually smiles. "My step-father." He steps toward Sherlock and smiles even wider. "I killed him."

That, Sherlock believes.

Moran turns away, still smiling to himself and then it's back to boredom. Damn Moran and his intelligent lack of emotion.

No, that's not it. Everything Moran's doing is fueled by emotion. He's just not letting himself be controlled by it. Sherlock wishes he'd met him under better circumstances.

Hours, by Sherlock's estimation, have gone by. He's beginning to wonder what will happen if no one comes at all when he hears footsteps.

It can't be John. John was limping. But it's not Mycroft and the steps sound like John's.

He cranes his head and sees his John and his world freezes. He thinks, _No, John, you stupid, stupid, lovely man. Why are you here? Don't you know how much better it would be for me to die but still know you're safe? That's what the past year has been about. You'd be okay without me. I promise. _

_Why can't you ever be selfish? Why must you insist in trying to prove that heroes do exist? Don't you know I'm always right? They don't exist, so stop being a hero._

John looks relaxed. His limp is gone, his hand is not shaking, and he seems completely calm. Sherlock knows this means he's very scared.

John doesn't even look at him; he focuses straight on Moran. "Hello, Sebastian." John smiles. "I've come to offer you a deal."

* * *

**AN/ ****I've been trying to imply a bit of Mycroft & John friendship. Is it working?**

**I think they respect each other and their seperate efforts in keeping Sherlock alive. **

**Anyway, stick around. I'll probably have the next chapter by tomorrow.**


	8. On Pain, Physical and Emotional

**AN/ Thanks to all of your for your continued support!**

**Warning for mild torture and imagined violence.  
**

* * *

Mycroft's plan is genius, of course, and definitely the very best option they have at the moment. John is sure that he's thought of a thousand possible outcomes and has a contingency plan for each one. John can't think that far ahead, so he doesn't try to think it out because that would drive him crazy.

He's just a bit nervous; he doesn't trust Mycroft completely, but he does know the man will do his best to keep anything from happening to his brother. He tries to relax. He's calm on the outside, he knows, but he takes a few deep breaths to lessen his inner turmoil.

He still remembers the things Mycroft said to him. _Moran doesn't have much information on you. He thinks you're a loyal, but a hopeless idiot. We will use this to our advantage._ People have been underestimating John quite often lately. He has decided he likes it.

It was almost enjoyable, discussing with Mycroft the best course of action, despite the bizarreness. The other man made most of the decisions, naturally, but John knew a bit about hostage situations.

John is going to try his very best at the one task Mycroft gave him besides staying alive; distracting Moran.

"Where's Big Brother?" Moran asks. "I'd have liked to catch him as well."

Very good; Moran's brought up the subject himself. Moran is smart, but still predictable, at least if you have a Holmes on your side. "That's part of the deal. You see, Mycroft Holmes has... _connections_." John can admit to having a bit of fun. It's the only way for him to stay sane in these situations. "If you let Sherlock go, right now, Mycroft will set you up, however you want, anywhere in the world. All the money and comfort you want for the rest of your life. No one hunting you at all." Everyone in the room knows this won't work. _Buying time, buying time..._

Moran stares at him with the look of a hunter. John does his best not to feel like prey. "I notice you said nothing about you leaving safe and sound." Perfect; this is playing out just as they'd hoped.

"I didn't."

Both he and Mycroft had known how easy it would be to set John up as the self-sacrificial man, given past actions he's taken. This was working very well, in John's opinion.

"No! John, you complete and utter idiot!" Oh Sherlock. Who can't act? Later - and there _will_ be a later - John is going to give him so much shit about this.

Moran comes at him, slowly, carefully, doing his very best to be intimidating. John invaded Afghanistan; this man will not scare him. He stands a little straighter. "And what makes you think I'll take this deal?"

_Absolutely nothing_, John thinks, but says, "Well, you'll live. You'll be comfortable." Okay, that sounds a bit weak, but John never claimed to be a thespian. He's done quite well thus far, if Sherlock frantic noises and insults are anything to go on. John glows, just a little. He's fooled a _Holmes_.

"Even if I thought I could trust Mycroft Holmes not simply to kill me after I take your little deal, who says I care anything for living another day?" Moran is stepping closer, closer. John can see Sherlock watching in horror out of the corner of his eye. "I'm personally more interested in revenge at the moment." And he backhands John across the face.

It stings. John had hoped it wouldn't come to this. All he can do is hope Mycroft will hurry before whatever is waiting for him gets too bad.

Moran is on top of him, checking for weapons. John vaguely realizes just how much bigger Moran is than him; he towers what seems like several feet above him. It's disconcerting.

Moran doesn't find anything (it's lucky they decided against decking John out with a microphone) and then precedes to circle him. John suddenly locks eyes with Sherlock. He's trying to concentrate on anything but that he's probably about to get beaten (it's okay though. Anything to delay getting blown up. Anything to give Mycroft the time he needs) so he takes time to dwell on just how ridiculous Sherlock looks, tied to that chair.

Sherlock himself is looking awful. John can read a lot in his eyes, as he always could. It looks as though Moran hasn't done anything to him, though, so thank God for that. He does look worried, which is very gratifying -

Moran's sudden blow to his bad shoulder has him crashing, humiliatingly, to the ground. It also has Sherlock shouting out, "Don't _touch_ him!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Moran says. It's all John can do not to giggle; he's trying to focus on anything but the pain.

"Cliche much?" he asks. Moran's attention turns back to him. Good.

"You brought this on yourself Holmes," he says, and kicks John hard in the ribs. John bites back a grunt of pain. So this is pretty much the usual anyway; Sherlock's pissed someone off and John's paying for it. That's alright. John can deal. A few days ago he'd thought Sherlock was dead. This is really preferable.

"Stop it!" Sherlock commands without much authority, sounding pained. Moran just smiles.

He continues to kick John into the ground, until John can no longer hold back cries. This makes Moran smirk. John takes his mind away from it all by imagining killing him. As a doctor, he's never been one for the slow, painful death, but for this man he would make an exception. First he'd pull out his finger nails, probably. Give him a stab wound, let him bleed out for a while. He saw a special on telly once, about a way of killing people by tying them up over bamboo and letting it grow through them. He winces as a kick lands on his solar plexus. If anyone deserves that, it's this man.

John knows he'll be fine in the end. He's had worse, he really has. Besides, it's all worth it if it's keeping Sherlock alive for a second longer.

Okay, so maybe John is a self-sacrificial idiot. People do stupid things for love.

Goddamnit that _hurt_.

* * *

()

* * *

Sherlock has never hated anyone as much as he hates Sebastian Moran in this moment. Not even Mycroft. If he wasn't tied to this chair, he'd rip the man apart with his bare hands.

He's hurting Sherlock's John. John is very strong and stoic despite being a complete idiot, but Sherlock knows that just that first hit to his shoulder is likely to bother him for months if - when - they get out of this situation. Maybe Sherlock will give him a massage... good, he's distracting himself.

Moran, as Sherlock had observed earlier, is very strong. He is using this strength to his advantage. Sherlock can guess what's fueling him now. Anger. Revenge. But beyond simply wanting to cause Sherlock pain through John, there is a primal part of him that he usually keeps locked away that is coming out in full force now. A man who has always been a Schadenfreude embracing his inner sadist. His blue eyes are burning with a passion for the art of causing pain. Sherlock understands why he and Moriarty were such a formidable team; both with their own sick form of madness.

Sherlock can't believe how stupid John is being. He just came here, no plan, no backup. But he mentioned Mycroft. Surely Mycroft wouldn't have let him come alone...

That's when he sees it. A white gas leaking into the warehouse from all sides. A drug of some sort certainly. This is not Sherlock's area of expertise, but it could be tear gas. _Mycroft_. And John, his lovely, clever John, who is currently on the floor taking a beating to distract Moran from seeing. They're lucky that Moran's been a closet sadist for years; he's enjoying this so much he's not concentrating on anything else. Well, he says _lucky_... John cries out again and something in Sherlock twists. He doesn't know what heartbreak means, but his chest hurts.

It's hard to stay objective about it even though he knows there is a plan. On one hand, the beating John is taking is possibly saving both their lives. On the other, _John is being hurt_.

If Sherlock hadn't been so _stupid_... Best not to dwell on that; adding guilt to the mix of the ridiculous amounts of emotion he's feeling now would be pointless. The days in which sentiment did not touch Sherlock Holmes are gone forever, apparently.

But there's truly not much he can focus on. All he can do is listen in horror to the sound of hard shoes and fists hitting the man he's ever loved. Sherlock understands empathetic pain so well now. Every blow to John makes him screw his face up in pain as well.

The entire room is gradually becoming more and more foggy. Moran hasn't noticed, but his blows to John are becoming lighter and less damaging (good). Sherlock catalogs the damage John has taken and deduces that although most of them will just bruise, there will most likely be at least one broken bone. Well, that won't matter if they both die...

Moran is breathing heavily, which is good. His body is also very big, which is bad, because the drugs will take longer to take effect.

Sherlock can feel the drug beginning to affect his thought processes. Everything is a bit dimmer and he knows they'll all be out within a matter of minutes. The most important thing in this moment is Moran not realizing until it's too late.

So, although it hurts to do so, he keeps his mouth shut and allows the beating to continue, holding his breath as much as possible. He can tell John is doing the same. Clever John.

It's only when the fog is so thick that it's difficult to see through that Moran notices, so caught up in his task as he was. He looks around the room a bit wildly, leaving John slumped on the ground. _Stupid of him; finally getting reckless_, Sherlock thinks, but he's getting very tired suddenly... No, he can't fall asleep.

Moran is stalking towards him, shouting something angrily that Sherlock can't quite understand. Moran looks as though he's about to pass out as well, but he still has managed to pull out a gun. _That's not good_, he thinks, but he doesn't know what to do about it.

Suddenly, there's a cry from behind him. _John_. Moran whirls around with his gun in hand and a shot resounds in the room, but Sherlock can't seem to keep his eyes open.

There's shouting, scuffling, a loud smacking noise and more shouting. Then darkness overtakes him.

* * *

**AN/ You know, I didn't ever plan for each chapter to end with a cliffhanger. Blame the muse. **

**The reason John gets a little giggly at the line, "I'm afraid I can't do that," is because it's said by the villain Hal in the movie _2001: A Space Odyssey_, which I assume John would have seen as it's quite famous. Also, Schadenfreude means in German, "One who derives pleasure from other people's pain," a word I can just hear Sherlock using.  
**

**Poor Sherlock is a bit of a useless lump, isn't he? Sorry 'bout that, never planned it. I'll have to write a BAMF!Sherlock fic...  
**


	9. To Find Home within Another Person

**AN/ This is the penultimate chapter. Also, almost 100 follows? You people are amazing!**

* * *

Moran's eyes are partially glazed - as are John's, he supposes - and both their brains are being affected by the gas. Moran's shot missed John, albeit narrowly, and John's steps towards the man are uneven. John has the upper hand, however, as he was holding his breath. He takes a swing at the ex-colonel's nose, but ends up hitting his jaw. Moran staggers back and for a second, John hopes he'll pass out.

But Moran blinks hard and roars, a carnal, animalistic, sound and hits back.

Or at least he tries. Their reaction time has been lowered, and yet John manages to duck and grab the man's arm and _twist_.

John is on top of Moran, pinning him down with his arm behind his back. Everything is getting blurry and John is not exactly sure where he is anymore, but he knows that it's important to keep in this position... He is so very sleepy. It's cold. Why isn't he wearing a jumper? These thoughts are suddenly very pressing...

Then there are strong arms pulling him away and he knows that what he was doing was important but he can't remember why.

* * *

He sits bolt upright, eyes flying open and heart screaming, _Sherlock!_

These weren't his first nightmares about the fall, but these were the most vivid he'd had, induced by the drugs no doubt. This one had started as the standard dream of sand and blood but had morphed into something different. The dead faces of young innocent men are haunting images that will never leave him completely, lingering in the dark corners of his mind.

Sherlock's head, bloody, eyes glassy, is the image his mind has been putting up every time he would close his eyes over the past year.

Sherlock is alive, but that doesn't mean his subconscious has grasped that. Every time he sees Sherlock's face on the bed next to his, some part of him does a double take.

He's been drifting in and out of nightmare-riddled sleep for hours now. The first time he'd woken up, Mycroft had been there.

Mycroft had explained everything and calmed John's worried mind. Moran has been "taken care of." John is endeavoring to trust that Mycroft has everything under control, that Moran is truly gone forever.

Mycroft had expressed a vague sort of gratitude and respect for John's actions, in typical Holmsian fashion. "What you did before John, that was... good," was Sherlock's preferred wording. Mycroft was slightly more subtle. "Most would consider it impressive, taking out a man practically twice your size after being beaten and drugged." Luckily John is fluent in these geniuses' strange tongue and knows this means something like, _You handled that situation better than I could have hoped and saved my brother's life. Thank you._

A doctor (Mycroft seems to be able to procure resources, humanoid or otherwise, from thin air) let John know the extent of his injuries. Bruises all over, but luckily no internal damage. Two ribs are cracked and he'd had a minor concussion from hitting the ground a bit too hard.

Sherlock is fine aside from his leg which has worsened from strain (the bloody idiot) and the fact that he won't wake _the hell_ up.

John's learned that this is due to Sherlock's past drug use. The doctor predicted that he will be awake within a few hours, but waiting was agony. Mycroft had shrewdly placed them in the same room, knowing that John would want to stay by him.

It's very comforting that every time he wakes from a nightmare in his drifting in and out of sleep, Sherlock is opposite him, sleeping peacefully. John assesses the changes to him, after the year of separation. His hair is shorter. There are lines on his face that weren't there before. He has scars that speak of hardships.

Somehow, all of this makes Sherlock more beautiful than he ever was.

He assesses his own feelings also, and he is still very much in love with Sherlock. He'd never really stopped.

He's also never been a man to think overly hard about his feelings, or why he feels them. That rather defeats the point, in his opinion, and he prefers to just experience them. So he looks at Sherlock and his chest tightens and his heart swells and he melts with happiness that this mad man he's fallen for his alive and well and _here_. It doesn't matter that these are feelings he hasn't felt since Mary, feelings usually assigned to teenage girls. It's simply too good to over-think.

He knows that this sort of love can be dangerous. He knows that he'll do almost anything for Sherlock. He knows he'll forgive him and make excuses. He simply cannot bring himself to care that he'll probably have his heart broken. He'll follow anywhere, everywhere, despite the feelings and impulses he'll have to keep to himself.

Another thing that is on his mind is constant worry, and so he is immensely relieved when Sherlock's eyelids flutter open and he sits up.

John has to leap across the room to stop Sherlock's lurching about the room, which is reminiscent to the time he was drugged by The Woman. Sherlock dodges wildly around, mumbling something John can't make out.

John lays him back on the bed tenderly, stroking his hair in an attempt to calm him down. He catches a few of the words spilling from his mouth. About half of them are 'John.' Sherlock doesn't seem to realize he's there, so he whispers soothing words. He catches a few more words. "Let... go. John - shot."

Oh. He thinks John was shot.

* * *

()

* * *

Someone is holding Sherlock down. He's trying to deduce where he is and everything about the room he's in, but he can't see and can barely think. He needs to get up!

He hears a "_Shhhh_" sound, which is very soothing for some reason. He lies back and listens carefully. He is rewarded when he hears words. He focuses on them. "It's alright, it's alright. You're okay, I'm okay. Relax." These words are very nice and sound very much like John. But John was shot; Sherlock remembers it.

Oh, this John isn't real. All the other dreams felt very real as well. He feels warm arms wrap around him and pull him into an embrace. It's sad that this isn't real, but very nice anyway.

He blinks to clear his eyes and sees John's face, lined and worried. That's not good.

This isn't real-John. He can do whatever he wants, so he reaches a hand out and touches John's face. Fake-John's eyes widen and his pulse rises. He blushes - really blushes - like most people aren't capable of after age fifteen, much less almost forty, and pulls Sherlock tighter to him.

Sherlock is sleepy again, but he manages to whisper, "Mine," before he falls asleep again.

* * *

When Sherlock wakes again, John is curled up on his side next to him on the bed. He wants to wrap around him, press his lips to any section of skin that he can see. Instead he sits in shock, processing.

John is infinitely more clever than many people give him credit for, than even Sherlock gave him at first. His intelligence is quieter, more subtle, but still there. He's also, brave and loyal and _good_, that strange, unheard of quality. And now he's saved Sherlock again.

It was Mycroft's plan, of course; Sherlock doesn't have to be a genius to know that. But John carried it out. Took a beating for Sherlock.

He doesn't know how to feel about that. He should feel guilty, he supposes, and he is sad that John was hurt - and wrathful - but also happy - no that's not the way to put it. Happy to have more evidence of what John will do for him.

With a lurch, Sherlock realizes two things. One, that he called John _his_ last time he was conscious. Two, that he is now indebted to _Mycroft_. And he'd so enjoyed it being the other way around!

They are both problems to be dealt with rationally and calmly, but that will wait as John is stirring. Sherlock focuses on his breathing for a moment and sighs when it evens back out. He pulls a blanket over John - merely to prolong his sleep, of course.

The best way to deal with the first problem is to pretend it didn't happen. He would try being cold to his (perhaps he should stop referring to John as his, even in his head, if he's going to be saying it out loud) John, but sincerely doubts he could. In fact, he may have to display gratitude... or something. John will forget about the incident soon enough.

The Mycroft problem is more of a difficulty. He really did save Sherlock's life and has been helping him for the past year. Any debt that Mycroft owed him has surely worn off by now...

Sherlock has found the solution! Mycroft's plan had an inordinate amount of risk for John involved. Now that he thinks about it, he can be angry at both of them for carrying it out - and maybe he is. It's a bit irrational as the plan went well, but it's not acceptable for John to be in such danger. And then he won't have to show gratitude! It's perfect!

After John wakes up, they have an awkward, short conversation in which neither of them can quite meet the other's eyes. Sherlock does end up expressing gratitude, if haltingly. John seems to know what he means and smiles, even through Sherlock berating him for his idiocy. A concussion and cracked ribs "are nothing" indeed!

Sherlock begins to head away to find Mycroft, who he expect to find lurching around a kitchen _not_ eating, but John calls him back. Sherlock turns to looks at him and is hit by how perfect John looks, with his rumpled nightshirt and bags under his eyes. "I think I remember you saying something about my acting skills. I must say I'm impressed with yours; you did a wonderful impression of panicking and being 'convinced' by mine."

"Yes yes, John, you're practically Shakespeare," Sherlock says, so very comfortable in their banter. "How long have you been sitting on that?" He spins away, just waiting for John to say it.

"Hey," and there is it, "Shakespeare was a playwright, Sherlock, or is that something you deleted from your hard drive?"

He can hear the smugness in John's voices so he flashes him a smirk as he says, "But he was an actor first."

He speeds away, ignoring John's shouted rubbish about how Shakespeare is most famous for being a playwright.

There must be a horrifically content smile on his face when he finds Mycroft, as his brother immediately knows he's been talking to the object of his affections. Sherlock gets rid of Mycroft's smirk by bringing up his failing diet. They discuss Moran and Sherlock is glad to know the man had been killed, although he'd have liked to kill the man slowly himself. Somehow their discussion becomes about John.

Mycroft sighs. "I believe the both of us have been taken in by Doctor Watson." From Mycroft, this is practically an admission to undying love, and Sherlock actually _growls_ at him.

Mycroft just laughs. "You need not worry, brother mine. That was not what I meant at all. I simply meant that he as an exceptional man."

Of course John is. "You are growing sentimental in your _old age_." He puts very specific emphasis on the last two words.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. They are walking together, and Sherlock finds it endlessly amusing how people shrink from their imposing figures. He makes a point to glare at one of Mycroft's servants (_is very nervous as she's been swindling money_), who flinches.

Sherlock tries to make Mycroft guilty over what could have happened to John, but Mycroft, it seems, has had enough of being made guilty and knows Sherlock's true motives. Sherlock steels himself, and, in a rush, forces out, "Thank you," and then clenches his jaw shut.

Mycroft looks at him askance. "Whatever for?" He laughs lowly, and that is the end of that.

The only reason Sherlock is spending any more time in Mycroft's home than he has to is because John does need to heal, and he can't be seen in public without a disguise yet. He waits anxiously for John to be well, spending as much time with him as he can.

Everything seems as it was before. They laugh, banter and quarrel. John is kind and Sherlock is impossible. But underneath it all there is a tension. Something... different. Something more. He doesn't know what it is.

He begins forming a plan in his head. He calls it, 'Plan: Keep John Forever.' It involves not scaring him off. At least trying to keep the things John doesn't like to a minimum. Trying to care - sometimes. He won't ever admit it, but it also includes driving away any woman John might get attached to. Sherlock hadn't even been trying before (consciously); surely it would be easy.

The day comes when John is declared fit to leave. They smile at one another, and Sherlock lets himself think of home. Of telling Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, the whole world, that he lives. He thinks of clearing his name and then cases, and running, and the streets of London, and 221b Baker Street. And John through it all.

Sherlock shoves John out the front door, ushering him into Mycroft's car. "Come on," he says, "let's go home."

* * *

**AN/ Go emotionally-aware-and-unashamed!John. **

**Haha, I use the old use-drugs-to-have-them-reveal-their-feelings and even that doesn't work!  
**

**By the way, I have a question for all of you out there. Why do so many people hate Irene Adler? This has become an issue to me because of the hate fanart she gets on deviantart. I quite liked her and thought she was sexy (oh so sexy says the bisexual in me), sly and an interesting semi-villain. She wasn't getting in the way of Johnlock, I promise she wasn't. Okay, she was in love with Sherlock. So is Molly. Does everyone hate her? Sherlock didn't love Irene back if that's what you were thinking. He saved her and was probably (despite his best work to not be so) physically attracted to her (unless he's really asexual, which IS a thing). Not in love. He respected her and cared about her at least a little.**

** She even shipped Johnlock! It was obvious! Stop hating her!  
**

**By the way, as far as this fic goes, Sherlock is demisexual, as in: not interested in sex until he falls in love :P I'm a tease.  
**


	10. Realizations of Mutual Idiocy and Love

**AN/ It's the last chapter. I would have given myself a day to rest before writing this, but I'm about to go out of town and didn't think you'd appreciate the wait.**

**I put in a little Lestrade/Molly which I think is adorable. Sorry Mystrade fans :(**

**Thank you for your reviews, follows and favorites and for actually answering my Irene question from last chapter. Without further ado, this is the final chapter of 'It Just Makes Sense.' **

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Both Sherlock and John are easily in agreement on breaking the news to Mrs Hudson gently, so John heads in first. He knocks on her door and she comes out in an apron, having been cooking as Sherlock managed to predict. John realizes that they should have informed her where he was during the three week period that he was at Mycroft's home, as she hugs him tightly and seems close to tears.

She's already this emotional, and John worries about her reaction to Sherlock. Nevertheless, he texts, **Come in**, to Sherlock and has a confused Mrs Hudson take a seat.

Her mouth falls open at the sight of her old lodger. John imagines he looked much the same.

Sherlock is somewhat nervous, or at least he sounds it, as he explains why he is not in a grave at the moment. He finishes with a mumbled apology, as John suspects he has deduced the sorrow and sleepless nights she has endured.

She stands wobbly but somehow dignified, walks over to Sherlock and delivers a resounding slap to his ridiculous cheekbones.

John can say that he hadn't expected that but not that he doesn't understand; if he hadn't been drugged and confused the first time he saw Sherlock, that would most likely have been his reaction.

Sherlock looks shocked, and then mollified when she hugs him fiercely. If her tears from earlier spilled over, no one commented.

She pulls back and smiles at the both of them, happier than John has seen her for months. "My boys," she says.

They prepare tea and try to dwell on happier things. John manages to make Mrs Hudson laugh and it all feels so real, like Sherlock was never gone.

Sherlock wants to call Lestrade and John is happy to see the extent of his flatmate's regard for the Detective Inspector.

Sadly, the slap from Mrs Hudson was not the last blow to the face Sherlock was destined to receive. John lures Greg to the flat using vague texts (it's the weekend so Greg is not working anyway) and tries to calm the man when he swears that he saw a ghost. Sherlock, for the second time in one day (John thinks he must be dreadfully bored of repeating himself but also thinks Sherlock deserves it) explains himself.

Greg's punch to the face looks _a touch_ more painful than Mrs Hudson's slap, and Sherlock doesn't get a hug out of it either only a bruise.

Greg gets another vague, but still nice apology. Sherlock easily gathers that Lestrade has been under probation at the Yard and that his wife has left him for good; he must feel at least partially responsible for this. John is a little proud of him.

John offers to take Greg out for a drink and to both of their surprise, Sherlock asks to come as well. Now that they are starting to go back into more of their normal routine, John can see the smaller changes to Sherlock. He seems almost afraid of being alone despite his past claims that "alone protects him." Being on his own for a year with only Molly or Mycroft to speak to and being hunted by Moriarty's minions has made him realize the value of company.

Mrs Hudson seems to regret letting them out of her sight as they leave. She calls after them, telling them to be safe.

John looks over at Sherlock as they walk to a pub. It's amazing that he isn't recognisable simply by putting on a hat, casual clothing, colored contacts and is walking with a slump. He is very talented at simple disguises.

Sherlock disdains their choice of drinks and only has water, and John wonders why he came at all. As John and Greg start joking with one another, Sherlock gets a bitter (John could almost say jealous but that's ridiculous) look on his face.

After that, John makes an effort to include him in their conversation. Apparently Greg and Molly have started dating, something that Molly mentioned to Sherlock. Greg is astounded and almost angry that Molly knew Sherlock was alive. Sherlock rushes to tell him not to be angry with Molly as he made her swear to keep it an absolute secret. This makes John feel a bit better as well.

Neither John nor Greg try to get drunk, as the main reason they ever did so is gone. John's not even tipsy as he waves Greg goodbye.

Before he gets in the cab, Greg looks straight in Sherlock's eye. "I didn't want to doubt you, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks straight back. "I know."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Lestrade is looking at the ground now.

Sherlock waves this off, looking mildly uncomfortable. "Don't be. You did the best you could in those circumstances." Sherlock tries, he really does try, to sound nonchalant as he says, "If you weren't such an idiot, I'm sure we'd be friends," but that's not how it comes out, especially since everyone knows what he really means.

Greg is smiling as he climbs into the cab.

John feels very happy as they make their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock is deducing things and John occasionally tells him he's brilliant, but at the moment he's preferring to just listen to his voice.

But suddenly there's a pit of dread in John's stomach, because he knows it's time. He has no excuse to keep putting off telling Sherlock how he really feels. But John's no coward, and he's been promising himself he'll do this.

Mrs Hudson fusses over needing to "fatten Sherlock up." John can agree that Sherlock is much too skinny. They sit in Mrs Hudson's kitchen as she tries to practically stuff Sherlock with food (John is most definitely not giggling like a schoolgirl, thank you very much). Later, they stumble into their flat, both tittering about having "escaped Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock wanders about, looking delighted that none of his things have been moved. His expression is a work of art when he finally finds his violin. He holds it with care, pushes the bow over the strings. For once, he is truly playing, not producing squealing noises.

There's nothing special about this moment, not really. John could wait until the perfect circumstances to tell Sherlock. But if he waits... What if he waits too long? What if he regrets it yet again?

Sherlock looks annoyed that John has interrupted his playing but curious when John says he has something to tell him. Then impatient while John is working up the nerve.

"Um..." John starts and internally winces. "Well, I don't want this to change anything between us." Sherlock frankly looks alarmed. "I just have to get this off my chest."

Sherlock does a little gesture that says, _Get on with it_.

John takes a deep breath and blurts out, "I'm a bit in love with you." He snaps his mouth shut and thinks, _Massive understatement._

And oh God, Sherlock isn't saying anything. This was such a bad idea. What if he doesn't want John around anymore?

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()

* * *

Oh. Well then.

When Sherlock was very small, he had decided to never fall in love. It was ugly in his eyes, and caused pain all around. He'd seen it and wanted no part.

This view on love continued and grew as he matured and learned how many crimes were committed and wars fought in the name of _love_, the strange, weak emotion. It had been merely chemicals in the brain to him for the longest time.

He'd never planned to fall in love with John. Sometimes he hates it, because it makes him weak and is illogical. At one point in his life, he would have said that love was explainable by logic, that endorphins and human beings' instincts as pack animals was the explianation. But now there is no denying that he loves John Watson and nothing he can do will change that.

Those words. He'd never expected to hear them directed at him, least of all from John. Sherlock would be worried about the "bit" part of John's statement, except that John is showing all the signs of being _desperately_ in love. And Sherlock wants to hit himself because John has been showing those signs for much of their acquaintance.

It hits him in a rush. John staring at him too long. His heart rate. His body language and pupil dilation. His blushes. All screaming John's love to the sky. It seems everyone noticed but Sherlock and he has never felt this much of an idiot.

John now looks a little like a wounded animal who is about to crawl away to lick his wounds. He shrinks in on himself and says, "Just - delete that, okay?"

"Why?" Oh, John doesn't know that Sherlock... feels the same. Of course not, as Sherlock's been hiding it.

"I don't want this to change... us." John sounds unbearably sad.

"John," Sherlock says. John turns to look at him. "I never want to delete this. _Ever_."

Realization is slow, creeping over John as blood rushes to his face. "Then - you feel the same way?"

Sherlock chuckles lowly. "Unrequited love is boring, John."

John looks like a starving man being offered food and suddenly Sherlock must be close to him. He crosses the far-too-wide gap between them and stands very close to his John.

"So when you were drugged and you said _mine_..." John says.

"I - " and this is bad, because Sherlock is fairly sure that John won't want to belong to him. That's not something people do, is it? "Well, I wish you were mine, but you aren't. Don't worry. The only reason I think it is because of transitive property of ownership, because I'm yours, I mean, if you want me..." This is hopelessly garbled and not in the least bit romantic; definitely Not Good. What if John is offended?

John's very honest face doesn't say offended. It looks very touched. John reaches up to touch Sherlock's face and Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and he leans into it. "I'm yours Sherlock," he whispers. "Always have been."

Sherlock's heart is racing and he feels as though he'll explode. He opens his eyes to see John smiling at him. "May I kiss you, John?" he asks.

"Always." It sounds like a promise.

Sherlock is not entirely sure how this is supposed to be done. He'd tried it in Uni and found it throughly disgusting - he's 96% sure that this won't be the case with John and knows the other man won't rush him - and yet he puts a hand on the back of John's neck and presses their lips together.

It's nice. Every part of Sherlock agrees on this salient point. There is a strange, warm glow in his chest and a rush that he usually feels on cases. His mind is also enjoying how high John has to go on tip-toes to reach him.

After what is only thirty seconds but what feels like a lifetime, he pulls away and looks John in the eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks.

"I could ask you the same question," he retorts, but most of his brain is cataloging all the things he can do now. He decides to start by grabbing John's hand and dragging him onto the the couch. He's wanted to do this for so long. John lets Sherlock to manhandle him. (Oh god is he going to be allowed to do this whenever he wants?)

Soon Sherlock's arms are wrapped around his - what are they? Is there a word? Colleague, friend, lover; all too weak - John and Sherlock's nose is pressed into his hair.

"I'm not going to let you go," he whispers. "I'll be jealous. I'll be cruel. I'll ignore you."

"I know." John smiles so brightly it almost blinds him. "And I'll stay. This is more than I'd ever thought would... I never thought you'd consider me."

Sherlock blinks. "You're the only person I'd ever consider, you idiot. You must know..." Sherlock is terrible at this; he prefers actions to words, but John needs to hear this. "You must know you're perfect."

Sherlock wants to kiss the looks that appears on John's face away. "I'm really not."

Sherlock tightens his arms. "You are to me."

John's smile is back, brighter than ever, and he kisses Sherlock's nose. It feel strange, but right somehow. "I thought you were married to your work."

"I thought you were straight."

For a moment, they stare at one another, and then they simultaneously dissolve into giggles.

They hold each other into the night, and this, this moment, is perfect.

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**AN/ The end!**

**Very emotional. Was it OOC? I hope not.**

**There will be a sequel about clearing Sherlock's name in about a week. I have so many fics planned for this fandom!**

**Review?**


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